"He's been—hurt. But we were in time. He'll get well."
"West shot him? We saw stains in the snow."
"No. He shot Whaley."
"Whaley?" echoed McRae.
"Yes. Wanted to get rid of him. Thought your daughter was hidden in the woods here. Afraid, too, that Whaley would give him up to the North-West Mounted."
"Then Whaley's dead?" the Scotchman asked.
"No. West hadn't time right then to finish the job. Pretty badly hurt, though. Shot in the side and in the thigh."
"And West?"
"We came too soon. He couldn't finish his deviltry. He lit out over the hill soon as he saw us."
They went into the house.